Logs and Shanties
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- The Rime of the Comparatively Young Mariners / by Tim, Ed and Xander
The Rime of the Comparatively Young Mariners
written for a log writing competition whilst sailing on the Broads in September
by Tim, Ed and Xander / random 2009
by Tim, Ed and Xander / random 2009
The Golden autumn of '09,
(the winter of their youths)
Wood Sorrel hired from Hunter's Yard,
Embarked they on their cruise.
From London Town they took their train,
To Wroxham and the Broads,
Their packs brim full of 'Basics' goods,
In tins to stow aboard.
There lay she bobbing by the bank,
In all her wooden splendour.
Ed couldn't wait to get on deck,
But tripped upon a fender.
'Twas David's maiden sailing trip;
He knew not what to think.
He ducked and dived as skipper gybed,
Near fell into the drink.
That wouldn't be advisable,
For Weil's lurks in there.
Remember: NOT A DROP TO DRINK,
THOUGH WATER'S EVERYWHERE
On Horsey Mere they ducked their heads,
As tourboats bustled by.
They couldn't see the crafty crew:
'A ghost ship!' was the cry.
Through Meadow Dyke with bows to wind,
They struggled, strained and strove;
Though nearly dead, with faces red,
Once more the quantpole drove.
To Ranworth now our heroes came,
For lunch on Wednesday morn.
They spied a spot betwixt two boats,
And knew 'twould soon be gorn.
The wind was fair, the crew unique,
The skipper bold and daring.
They thrust the boom out with their feet,
And BACKWARDS soon were haring!
Yea, backwards, backwards sailed our crew!
The stern slid slickly into moor.
Relieved, the sailors gave a sigh,
And danced, delighted, on the shore.
From Ranworth up to Ludham Bridge,
Their tacks made cruisers quake.
They quailed and cris-crossed, quite confused,
Bewildered in their wake.
At eventide the doughty crew,
A tavern would frequent.
For food and ale that ne'er would fail
To Ludham's Dog they went.
Their Odyssey now at an end,
Behind them many miles,
Our Heroes' journey culminates
At Hunter's, wreathed in smiles.
They'd sailed to Horsey, Hickling Broad,
To Hunter's and How Hill;
Past comorant and crested grebe,
Past wherry and windmill.
Through Potter Bridge (the middle arch!)
Down Ant and Bure and Thurne:
By all had passed Wood Sorrel's mast;
Her bow, her sail, her stern.
So here our epic poem ends:
'Ta muchly for the boat!
The sailors know they'll ne'er forget
Their wondrous week afloat.
(the winter of their youths)
Wood Sorrel hired from Hunter's Yard,
Embarked they on their cruise.
From London Town they took their train,
To Wroxham and the Broads,
Their packs brim full of 'Basics' goods,
In tins to stow aboard.
There lay she bobbing by the bank,
In all her wooden splendour.
Ed couldn't wait to get on deck,
But tripped upon a fender.
'Twas David's maiden sailing trip;
He knew not what to think.
He ducked and dived as skipper gybed,
Near fell into the drink.
That wouldn't be advisable,
For Weil's lurks in there.
Remember: NOT A DROP TO DRINK,
THOUGH WATER'S EVERYWHERE
On Horsey Mere they ducked their heads,
As tourboats bustled by.
They couldn't see the crafty crew:
'A ghost ship!' was the cry.
Through Meadow Dyke with bows to wind,
They struggled, strained and strove;
Though nearly dead, with faces red,
Once more the quantpole drove.
To Ranworth now our heroes came,
For lunch on Wednesday morn.
They spied a spot betwixt two boats,
And knew 'twould soon be gorn.
The wind was fair, the crew unique,
The skipper bold and daring.
They thrust the boom out with their feet,
And BACKWARDS soon were haring!
Yea, backwards, backwards sailed our crew!
The stern slid slickly into moor.
Relieved, the sailors gave a sigh,
And danced, delighted, on the shore.
From Ranworth up to Ludham Bridge,
Their tacks made cruisers quake.
They quailed and cris-crossed, quite confused,
Bewildered in their wake.
At eventide the doughty crew,
A tavern would frequent.
For food and ale that ne'er would fail
To Ludham's Dog they went.
Their Odyssey now at an end,
Behind them many miles,
Our Heroes' journey culminates
At Hunter's, wreathed in smiles.
They'd sailed to Horsey, Hickling Broad,
To Hunter's and How Hill;
Past comorant and crested grebe,
Past wherry and windmill.
Through Potter Bridge (the middle arch!)
Down Ant and Bure and Thurne:
By all had passed Wood Sorrel's mast;
Her bow, her sail, her stern.
So here our epic poem ends:
'Ta muchly for the boat!
The sailors know they'll ne'er forget
Their wondrous week afloat.